Millom in the Dock by Frankie Lassut Page A

by the proud mothers of the players.
The poor ickle players were between pure carbon and a hard place.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t just the threat of the game but, the
soap and watery legend of the … communal bath afterwards?!
    “Are legends
true?” asked the Wigan players to each other, with mucho
nervousness. “If not in general … might this one just be the
exception? Gulp!” Will Sod’s law rise from the depths to claim them
as victims? The Wigan 7 sure hoped not. The rest of the players had
climbed onto the clubhouse roof and no amount of stick and stones
aimed safely, thrown by the ‘shown up’ mothers and partners could
loosen their grip.
    Because the
local Rugby lads (not even Sharpo, but he was very close to a sniff
a couple of times) could not come anywhere near to satisfying even
the basic sexual needs of these women, foreplay for instance
involves a two person scrum, followed by that bit where they lift
you up by the knack … ahem! Knickers, to grab the ball … say no
more, very, very painful, especially as the top of your head
crashes into the ceiling … so I’m told. So, as sexual partners, us
delicate non Rugby, well after the link, homosapien ‘upright’ types
had absolutely no chance at all and, then more often than not, had
to live in sexual frustration sometimes for decades. Sigh! (I still
am … S I I I I I I GH!)
    The visitors
though, rough as the game was, were always very welcome especially
if they were highly skilled, although it didn’t seem that way in
the presence of the opposition and the ch(J)eering crowd. Ancient
Christians would know what I mean. You see the Millom Females 11
saw them as suitable sexual partners if they, working as team,
managed merely to touch the ball. If any of the visitors actually
succeeded in running a couple of feet with it while at the same
time giving a carry to a couple of thumping, biting, scratching
ladies they, the ladies, wanted … no, sorry, ‘were having’ his
body; end of story.
     

     
    Artist’s
impression of Sharpo leaving the field at half time (if the men
were still on) to get his segment of orange.
     
     
    The game was
merely a warm up, score a try? No one knows as it has never
actually happened. Hmmmmm, yes M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the
Jury, dear reader, I realise it is painful to visualise these
things but I must continue with ‘the bath’.
    Like Orca, the
women would herd the visitors into the corner of the bodily heated
pool, creating small steam twisters to add to the confusion. It was
then either soapy flesh to soapy flesh … moustache to moustache (if
the guy was man enough to grow one) … or drown! Please yourself?
With home so far away and, only one road passing through the hick
town through two farmyards?! Well no one really wants to die, so
physical and emotional exhaustion with limbs skew-whiff and your
head jammed up your butt is far, far more preferable, especially
with people like Poggy around to help heal you … foot on backside …
rope around remaining bit of neck … pull … heave ho! … Pop! … Wash
hair. A ‘free’ enema! A cranial pull through. Every cloud has a
silver lining (except if it’s from Chernobyl). A relieved and
grateful local audience huddled together grunting approval at the
far end of the bath.
    Eventually the
waters would go calm again and the mist would softly veil the lad’s
usually 20/20 hunter’s vision. Was the mating over? How could one
tell? Easy! So I’m told … by simply submerging one’s head and
seeing, out of focus, the bodies lying dormant on the bottom of the
bath … dead?! M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader
… No! Merely holding their breath and ‘playing’ dead, the
cowards!
    All this play
acting led to a Millom Women’s Rugby League style Holger Neilsen
revival session at the end of the bathing session, which involved
the jumping on the chest to expel water, plus a little mouth to
mouth resuscitation. Sometimes a crunching sound